Remembrance in Fall

An old man with a walker
stumbles up the ramp
of the facility
that’s now his home.
He misses his picket fence,
the trees that he planted in his yard,
the whisper of bubbles popping in dishwater,
and the soft, warm arms of his dead wife.

I turn a corner
onto another shadow-lined street:
a child in red
running across his yard,
crying for a toy,
while his mother stands at the open car door.
She looks in the mirror,
and misses the way her lips
were once soft and pink
and how her husband’s eyes used to sparkle
when he told her he loved her.

Another corner:
children playing soccer.
Families lining the edge of the field,
wrapped in blankets.
I stop and listen for your voice on the sidelines,
cheering for your sister.
I miss the way your cheeks turn red when you’re cold,
the way you sang me to sleep,
and how your eyes curl like ribbon
when you smile.